The Legendary PIe Bird
by GrenGren Alley
Summary: Amelie Fortescue bakes treats so fine, they'll wake the dead...literally! Using her pastries , she brings the dead back to life in order to discover the reasons for their deaths. But when her skill as a "detective" catches the attention of a certain mortician, she finds herself embroiled in just a bit more trouble than she'd like.
1. A Leaven o'Clock

**A/N:** Hello, hello, dear readers! Long ago, I wrote a story of this same title about a dead girl named Amelie who was tied to life by a certain amulet. I unfortunately hit a major roadblock with that story, unsure of how to proceed with the plotlines I myself had cooked up. However, now, months later, I have revamped the storyline and indeed Amelie's character altogether. Herein, you will see the results of an improved, smoother writing style and a plot that has actually been planned in advance. I hope you enjoy, and perhaps feel a sense of nostalgia if you happen to be one of the readers of the original story.

Happy reading!

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******Chapter One: At a'leaven o'clock**

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The first time Amelie Fortescue brought someone or rather, some_thing_ back to life occurred purely by accident.

At the time, she hadn't been sure exactly the best process for explaining to her father why their dog, poisoned by an embittered and ever-jealous neighbor, was suddenly prancing about all spry-like. Even harder to explain away was the eclair in the recently-reanimated pup's mouth, and why it dropped dead a mere minute later as the delectable confection found itself fully devoured. This saddened Amelie for two reasons; she loved the dog dearly, and the eclair was the first one she'd been able to make without her father's help.

It was accepted at the time that, being coated generously in fine chocolate ganache, the eclair was quite toxic and did in the poor pup for good. As for the canine's apparent rebirth, it was concluded that it had not truly been dead, merely comatose from the neighbor's heinous poisoning. Amelie's father Bellamy, at a loss as to how to handle such a situation, decided the best thing to do would be to sit down and instill in his daughter a sense of responsibility.

"Mia, dear," he said to her over bread and tea." You know why it is that you can't feed pastries to animals, no?"

Amelie, being an ever-precocious six-year-old, nodded sagely as though she knew all wisdom of the universe.

"Because animals are too simple to appreciate the art and effort put into creating them."

Bellamy caught himself in the middle of nodding and scoffed.

"No, no! We do not feed the animals pastries because what is good to us is not good to them, you see?"

"Yes, papa."

"Good, good. Now run along and knead the dough for the noon loaves. I will take care of our poor friend here."

The baker's daughter did just that, and for ten years thereafter, she flitted through life fully convinced that she had murdered her own dog.

It was only quite some time later, after the birth of her brother Russel and the subsequent death of her mother (unable to endure the stresses of labor), that Amelie would perform another accidental reanimation—this time, on a vagrant who had passed during the night. She found the man in an alleyway behind the butcher's and the shoemaker's, and she had no idea whatsoever that he would be returning to the world of the living, however short a time it was.

In truth, the entire incident began when the young woman laid one of the rolls from the basket of free day-olds (unanimously agreed upon by the populace to be the bakery's finest idea) next to the vagrant's cold, stiff, very much dead body. It was intended as an offering of sorts, a respectful gesture towards the man who must have suffered terribly in life. She most assuredly never expected the man to actually _get up_ and take a bite of the roll, not when she was absolutely, undeniably certain that he had been very, very dead from a head injury.

Thus, after kicking the newly-resurrected man in the indelicate bits, fleeing with a scream, and scattering the basket of day olds into the street (a flock of birds nearby nearly had heart attacks from bliss), Amelie opted to only give baked goods to persons with a pulse from then on. Bellamy and Russel, after hearing of the girl's plight, opted to write it off as fever at first (Russel had just crested the age of five, and possessed an ever-insufferable attitude in regards to his sister's antics). It was only when the girl resurrected yet another vagrant some weeks later, this time on purpose to prove the truth of her words, that they held any stock in her claim. Having witnessed a man return to the world of the living long enough to devour a pastry, only to subsequently perish once more upon finishing the treat, the Fortescue men were forced to accept that their beloved Amelie possessed something of a unique talent for baking that neither her father or brother had. That is to say, the lone female of the family crafted treats so finely delicious, so uniquely scrumptious, that the dead literally returned from the grave in order to sample them.

It was also at this point that the Fortescue patriarch discovered that that was an excellent marketing ploy. Thus did the small bakery known as the Sarriette coin it's motto; "Treats so fine, they'll wake the dead!" Though of course the public did not know that the statement could be taken literally, this was somewhat ironic given that the shop was just two businesses down from the local Undertaker's funerary parlor. London's citizenry were none the wiser.

And so it went, the young lady honing her culinary skills and mastering the art of reviving the dead while she steadily approached a marriageable age. Meanwhile, the bakery enjoyed quite a lot of success among the other businesses of London's streets.

Gradually, it would come to pass that some of Amelie's resurrections were performed on murder victims, who upon revival screamed with terror at their recent fates. Unsure what else to do with a screaming, flailing, bleeding person, Amelie would then shove the treat that had brought the unfortunate individual back fully into his or her mouth and say nothing about the incident. For it was only with the complete consumption of the given pastry that the victims returned to being dead. To have a reanimated cream puff connoisseur on the loose on a permanent basis was something that did not bear thinking on.

In time, however, she mastered the technique of soothing these victims long enough to offer them tea and perhaps ascertain a clue or two regarding the cause of their demise.

"My friend," she would ask delicately. "Tell me, who has wedged that meat cleaver into your skull?"

And the non-corpse would answer, to the best of their abilities, before breaking into tears at their untimely demise. But Amelie felt a certain obligation to the dead she had revived, and so (after assuring they were returned to a state of eternal rest) she would cleverly relay the tidbits to the police in such a way that no one would know she'd spoken to the dead. After all, were she to claim such, it would mean a house of bedlam for the rest of her life. The lady greatly enjoyed her home at the bakery, and the act of baking, so such a change in lifestyle would be extremely undesirable. Thus, for a time, the police and the Scotland Yard went for a long period without a single unsolved case, while the baker acquired a modest amount of money under the table for services rendered. Despite Amelie's insistence that the officers owed her nothing, a certain inspector Abberline offered the recompenses as hush money.

Gradually, the number of murders dwindled. Perhaps the criminals of London's dark bowels had come to fear the Yard's tenacity, or perhaps there was simply no one left to commit the crimes. At any rate, the speed of life cooled to a state of peace, and the Sarriette fell into a state of busy-ness with the impending holiday seasons and autumnal festivals.

It was on a cold, bitterly windy day the week before All Hallow's Ever that the pace of life would be changed once more.

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	2. The Reviving Rolls

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******Chapter Two: The Reviving Rolls**

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The young, overly wealthy Earl Phantomhive arrived in London around noon to a burst of blistering wind and biting cold. So harsh was it, even the horses seemed to shiver as the carriage drew to a stop in front of the police station. The young man shuddered slightly as the wind threatened to take off his hate, but regained his composure as this handsome butler opened the fine carriage's door.

In truth, he would much rather be home, in his study with a good fire crackling away and a cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey in his hands, but the orders of the queen were ever a tug at his leash, being the royal watchdog as he was. He had little choice but to endure the chill in order to please Her Majesty.

This particular case was the fourth in a series of bizarre, unexplained deaths. The men, having been found splayed out in the middle of the street for all to see, were obviously the victims of murder, but without any visible wounds, bruises, markings, or indeed any signs of struggle whatsoever, it was difficult to say exactly how the men died. Even more confusing was the fact that the men had appeared to be drowned, while no one had actually witnessed the men disappearing or the drownings themselves. Indeed, the nearest substantial body of water was the river Thames. But autopsy reports had found that the substance in the lungs was not that of river water, but some as of yet unidentified substance. Thus, the London Police were at a loss. That very fact was what called him here to investigate.

"Ah, do hold onto your hat, young master," the butler advised. "It would not do to lose a thing so fine to this unseasonable chill and gust."

Ciel cast a scathing look at his butler, knowing that the man would find it endlessly entertaining were that to happen.

"I feel no concern for such," the boy waved him off. "After all, that is what you are here for, is it not, Sebastian?"

The image of the tall, demonic butler chasing after a runaway hat was perhaps an even more amusing mental image. The man's insufferable smirk diminished somewhat, instead melting into a more subdued lift of the lips.

"Yes, my lord," came the obedient response.

The servant handed his master his cane, then helped him climb down from the high, gleaming carriage's step. Side by side, the pair waltzed into the police station with only the barest of obligatory greetings. With an air of haughtiness and perhaps coming across as a bit self-righteous though he stood only just over four feet tall, Ciel whisked past the bewildered man at the reception counter without saying a word. The young man decided to refrain from comment after the butler cast him a smile with an underlying, almost sinister note.

After a moment or two of walking, the young nobleman threw open the door to the Chief of Police's office without so much as a knock. Inside the office stood two men who, upon the unexpected and incredibly rude interruption, paused mid-sentence to gaze upon the intruder.

"You were thinking I was that greenhorn at he counter, perhaps?" Ciel said with a smirk.

"Ah," the men recovered themselves as they saw who the intruders were. "Our apologies, Lord Phantomhive."

"Hn," the nobleman accepted their cow-towing with a wave of his hand, then took in the appearance of the taller of the two men with some surprise. "Inspector Abberline? What are you doing here? The Yard is investigating this incident now as well?"

"Ah, yes." The man straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Yes, the Yard has taken an interest. And aside from that, the police here requested my aid personally. That you are here as well must mean that Her Majesty has shown an interest as well."

"Indeed," said the Earl. "It is apparent to Her Majesty that the police investigation leaves much to be desired."

Neither of the men missed the note of smugness in the youth's tone, but both of them chose to let it pass without comment. The butler, however, allowed a smirk of amusement.

"Tell me, gentlemen, what precisely are we dealing with in regards to these men?"

"Please," Abberline pulled a chair away from the police chief's desk. "have a seat, Phantomhive. Edwin and I will explain what we know."

Chief Edwin Barabac, a somewhat dumpy man of middle age, had a rapidly retreating hairline but an impressive moustache to make up for it. The man nodded in agreement.

The Earl did sit, after quite a lot of flourish and aid from Sebastian in removing his coat and hat. The butler further assisted in pushing the chair as flush to the table as he could, then swept off to the side to place the items on an oak rack nearby.

"Shall I prepare tea?" Chief Barabac suggested. With silent agreement form all parties in the room, more out of politeness than anything else, he exited and left Inspector Abberline to the whims of the miniature nobleman.

"Then, inspector, please tell us all that you know," Ciel urged the man. "And do try to be brief, I have no intentions of staying for tea."

"Yes," Abberline allowed himself a deep, resigned sigh. "Well, to be frank, it is not only the police who are unsure how to proceed."

The young man piqued his visible eyebrow in curiosity, gesturing for Abberline to continue.

"You've heard, no doubt, that he victims total in four thus far. Also make note that the men all seem to have drowned, and each body was splayed out in an odd position in the street. Beyond that, however, the absolute solid details are a bit hazy."

"What do you mean, inspector?" Sebastian asked. "Surely, the state of the bodies gives some indication as to the nature of the crimes?"

"That's just the thing. The victims appeared to be drowned, but he local mortician found no water in the lungs, nor was the clothing of any of these young men soiled or wet in any way."

"Young men?"

"Aye, young business owners. The first was the proprietor of a tailor shop. The next two, a sibling duo in charge of a shoe repair business. This latest one had just opened a trinket shop over by the square when he turned up dead," Abberline offered.

"Crimes of passion?" Sebastian offered. "Perhaps these gentlemen had ladies they were courting or young wives who poisoned them out of jealousy or for monetary gain?"

"Even I wouldn't suspect something so asinine," then detective scoffed. Then, realizing he'd been rude, he hastily added, "All of these young men were new to the area, you see. To the best of our knowledge, none of them had cultivated relationships with any young ladies."

"Perhaps it is an association of sorts then," Ciel spoke this time. "Could they have been acquainted with one another and involved in some sort of dispute over gambling? Perhaps there is another young business owner who loaned them money and when the others refused to pay, ended their lives out of spite."

"You have an excellent imagination my lord," Abberline winced at the glare he received from the young Phantomhive. "But no, that is not the case either. From witness accounts about the city, it is clear that none of these men had associations of any kind. Indeed, the only commonality they share is their age bracket and the manner in which they were killed."

"We know nothing at all then," the Earl spoke in agitation.

"Could we perhaps investigate the state of the bodies ourselves, then?" Sebastian asked, laying a placating hand on the back of his master's chair.

"I'll grant you permission, yes, but the bodies are not here at the station. All four victims were taken to the local mortician's parlor."

"I see," Ciel said, looking quite a bit annoyed and put-out. "Then that is where we shall take this investigation."

He stood and motioned for Sebastian to fetch his coat.

"Inspector, I must thank you for your cooperation. If I acquire any additional information, I will inform you via courier."

The Earl made to leave, but Abberline fidgeted uncomfortably, as if he had something he as internally debating.

"Um, one moment," he blurted out. Both butler and nobleman paused at the door. "There is something else. Someone who may be able to help you more than I could. I would have called on them next, were it not for your presence here."

Ciel was, admittedly, intrigued. He turned to face the man fully.

"Yes?"

Abberline stood and handed the boy a small folded sheet of paper with loopy, feminine writing on it. Raising his visible brow once more, Ciel read the note.

"Sarriette Gourmet Bakery," he recited. "Freshly baked rolls, cakes, cookies, and pastries. Family owned for two decades. Treats so fine, they'll wake the dead? Inspector, is this some sort of jest?"

Abberline scratched the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Ah, would that it were," he sputtered. "There's a young lady there with a special eye for unseen details. She has a keen skill that has aided me more than once in apparently impossible cases. You can ask after her there."

"Her?" Sebastian asked. "You have a special contact who is a woman? Why, inspector, were the public to discover this..."

"I know," the man cut him off. "But as you well understand, the Yard has a reputation to uphold. The people expect our success as a unit, and the young lady provides us with a very valuable service."

"...not to mention, she makes such a good custard pie that I actually cried," he added under his breath. The other two males heard, and both exchanged amused glances.

"Hm. Very well. I am feeling in the mood for afternoon tea about now, anyway."

"I thought you weren't staying for tea?"

"Never you mind, inspector. We'll be on our way now. Yet again, I appreciate your assistance."

With that, the butler and the lord, a study in black and royal blue, made their way back out to the carriage, every bit as rude and abrupt as when they'd entered.

The ride to the aforementioned bakery would take place in silence, Ciel clearly sulking about something or another. Sebastian smirked at the sullen young lad.

"My, you are temperamental today, aren't you, my lord?"

"Who asked you?" the lord snapped back. Sebastian's response was a mere chuckle, and he allowed his master to sulk in peace all the way to the bakery.

The Sarriette was a great deal smaller than either male was expecting. At least, it appeared so from the outside. Rustic red brick made up the bulk of the building, with white painted frames holding large panes of glass, behind which sat many colorful display pastries; a towering croquembouche, tiered cakes decorated with sugared flowers, eclairs, cookies, and breads of every imaginable type. It was hard to pass judgment on their quality, however, given that the chill was creeping beneath the seams of Ciel's coat now and he did not have time to look. Rustic or not, the interior of a bakery was no doubt a warmer environ than the dirty street. And perhaps he'd never admit it openly, but the scent of baking loaves permeating the air was a pretty convincing incentive as well.

Once inside, the atmosphere was quite different. Despite the frigid day, customers from all walks of life crowded the counter, where a head of crimson, curly hair could be glimpsed between the shoulders of the onlookers. The hair, pulled loosely back into a chignon, belonged to a young woman dressed in a white blouse and long black skirt. A white apron draped over the skirt, protecting it for the most part from the errant flour that dusted the very air of the store. As they watched, she could be seen jotting down orders, darting to the back, and returning with various breads and hot, buttery rolls. Ciel supposed he could have used his privileges as a nobleman to cut the line, and indeed, given his mood, he had been predisposed to doing so. But he suddenly found himself quite occupied with gazing upon the racks and racks of sweets behind the counter and thus, unknowingly, became hypnotized and was content to wait.

Row upon row of pies, tarts, Chorley cakes, Bakewell puddings, and...was that a Coussin de Lyon? It was all too much for his young, sweets-addicted heart to take, and it was only when the young woman fixed him with a vibrant teal gaze and asked if he'd like a sample that he remembered himself. He was here on business, he reminded himself, no matter how much he wished to buy up every single delectable concoction on the racks.

Sebastian, sensing his master's inner turmoil, and with some amusement at his apparent shift in moods, smiled politely and nudged the boy forward a bit.

"Thank you, miss," he said. "I do believe the young master would enjoy one of those lovely eclairs you have there."

Amelie, even after years of having grown accustomed to her unusual talent, had to remind herself that this was a living, breathing customer rather than one of her unusual...acquaintances. Shaking herself a bit, she plastered a smile on her face and dusted her hands off on her apron.

"Are you certain? You wouldn't prefer a Tombstone Tart or a Mortal Meringue?" At the odd look she received in response, Amelie chuckled. "Ah, sorry. They're themed items, given the approach of All Hallow's Eve. Quite popular with children, so I just assumed...ah, never mind. An eclair it is, sir."

It was only a moment later that Ciel found himself with a half eclair in hand. Momentarily forgetting himself, and the indirect insult the woman had cast upon him, he bit into the procured good.

In that instant, his entire world narrowed to a single point in space. There was no pain here, no fear, no worries or stress, and no demonic contract. There was only that pastry, with its dense and sweet custard-creme filing. It did not spew from the pastry upon biting down, and the chocolate ganache glazing the top did not melt onto his gloves. It was a perfect, harmonious balance; sweet filling, light pastry, slightly bitter yet rich glazing. Ciel allowed his eyes to drift shut in bliss, his grouchiness at having to haul himself out to chilly London forgotten. He felt at peace, connected to the pastry and to the universe. It was so far beyond anything he'd ever had before, even with the treats that Sebastian could concoct, that he began to see the flour-dusted, unintentionally rude young woman in front of him in a new light. She must be an angel, a saint, a genius and a muse. She was...

"Ahem," Sebastian cleared his throat, shattering the fantasy world. Ciel's visible eye widened. "Young master?"

"Ah...ahem," the boy caught himself. "It's very kind of you, and it's quite a fine pastry, but we are here looking for someone called miss Fortescue." For that was the name written on Abberline's note, a smaller line of neat print he'd only noticed after boarding the carriage. It had read, _'Should you need aid, ask for Amelie Fortescue.'_

"Well, that would be myself," said the sugar-spun pixie of Ciel's life. "Why do you ask?"

"We're here on business from the Yard," the boy answered simply.

_'And if your Bakewell pudding is half as good as your eclair, I may have to get rid of Sebastian,'_ he thought to himself.

"Ah, is that the case?" Amelie asked. "I feared as much, since the moment you two walked in here."

The girl removed her apron and dusted her skirts before turning to face the back of the bakery.

"Papa," she called. "Would you send Russel to the front, please?"

She stepped away from the counter and a moment later there appeared a young, auburn-haired lad roughly Ciel's age. Though, he noted with some irritation, the boy was taller than he. Amelie nodded to the boy with a smile, patting his head affectionately.

"Take over for me, would you?" she entreated the boy. "I have 'special business' to attend to."

The boy, after rolling his eyes with slight annoyance at his sister's affections, glanced up at her with his sharp, dark eyes and an accusatory tilt of the head.

"Who's calling on you this time?"

"I—good question, actually. Begging your pardon, sirs, but may I ask what business of the Yard you are here on?" she directed the question at Ciel, who seemed a bit surprised that there existed someone who did not know who he was.

"By orders of Her Royal Majesty, Earl Phantomhive has come to London seeking the source of some recent and rather...unsavory happenings," Sebastian presented with the appropriate amount of grandeur.

"Oh?"

Amelie didn't really seem all that impressed, neither with Ciel's title nor Sebastian's deliberately flirtatious tone. There was something she didn't like about him, but she couldn't place a finger on precisely what it was. By the look of him, he was probably used to getting females to bend to his will and spill their deepest, darkest secrets just by laying on the charm.

'_Smug bastard,'_ she thought.

"How I've improved my lot in life then, to have an Earl come calling on my own doorstep."

Her voice was as rich with sarcasm as her eclair had been rich with flavor. Worse, she stood haughtily with one hand on a hip, as though daring the Earl to call her out for her rudeness in her own home. Ciel was unsure if he should be as insulted as he felt. And yet he felt conflicted as well, given that he had taken but a single bite of the sample and the rest of the treat's alluring form lay in wait within his gloved palm. He was saved the trouble of a reprimand, however, not by his butler but by the appearance of another man. With the same sharp, dark eyes as the younger boy who'd taken Amelie's place, and hair just as dark, it was clear that the newcomer was related to the young woman. A father, most likely.

"Not again!" he cried in lament, moving to take his daughter's hand. "Mia, must you chase off every suitor who comes your way? Will you never allow yourself to be married off? And this one, an Earl, to boot! It's not as though you have many prospects to begin with, and here comes a literal golden opportunity! I am ashamed to call myself your father, to think that I had raised such a—"

"Spinster?" Amelie offered, not missing a beat. Her father looked shocked, dropping his daughter's hand as if he'd been burned. Amelie patted his cheek sympathetically. "Papa, we've discussed this countless times. A man has nothing to gain by marrying me, unless it is to become fat and well-fed. I am far too obsessed with our trade, and with...other things, to ever be a good wife. Besides that, the Earl isn't here to call on me for my hand."

"Take care what you say in front of a suitor!" Bellamy darted over towards Sebastian with a sense of grace that belied a man of his years and profession. He began to examine him in an appraising manner, as one might do with a horse at market. "He's tall. Good, strong build, if a little slender. Handsome, too. Not many of the noble caste actually live up to their fine titles when it comes to appearances. Further, he is—"

"Not the Earl," Amelie finished for him again.

"Pardon?" her father said.

"The man you are currently fondling is not the Earl, papa. That man has the look of a servant, and the look of a man who grows weary of our antics," she answered, looking to the butler. "I am correct, am I not?"

The man smiled, tight lipped and close-eyed. To most onlookers it seemed a polite, if a bit stiff gesture, but to Amelie it seemed to be something more. It was not the smile of a calm man but rather, it reminded her of a dog about to bear its teeth. Not a nice smile, that. Amelie shuddered. There was most definitely something more to this man, something dark and unnerving that lay beneath the surface, like painted-over engravings of a devilish scene from scripture.

"You are correct," said the unnerving man. "Forgive me for not introducing myself to you, miss. My name is Sebastian Michaelis, and I am—"

"Simply one _hell_ of a butler," Ciel robbed him of the chance to make his favorite pun.

He'd done it because Amelie had seemed immensely pleased with herself when she'd done it to her father, and because he was feeling an odd sort of kinship with the girl despite her rudeness.

The look of irritation on the demon's face, and his inability so say anything about it, was worth it. He found the action of interruption quite satisfying indeed.

"Hn," Sebastian said. "Now then, we are getting a bit off-topic. We came here because a certain man informed us of an uncanny skill you possess."

"Ah, Abberline," Amelie mused, knowing already who had ratted her out. "Quite a fine man, that Abberline. Full of integrity and ambition, but a bit lacking in spine. Yes, I suppose you would be here for _that_. Well then, how may I be of assistance to you?"

"If you please," Sebastian said, quite agreeing with the young woman's assessment of Abberline as lacking a spine, "The young master and I have yet to visit with the decedents."

"Ah, and by that I take it you mean you haven't seen the bodies yet?"

Ciel looked a bit aghast at the girl's bluntness, while the demonic butler was simply amused.

"Please," Amelie waved off the incredulous expression on the boy's face. "You'll find that the only delicacies here are the ones you hold in your fine gloves. My sensibilities are quite stalwart. Papa, I'm going out. I imagine it won't be too long before my return. Don't forget to proof tomorrow's loaves."

"Mm. Watch after yourself," Bellamy said by way of farewell as the girl retreated to the door and collected a purple shawl and a long, black coat from the hook.

He felt ill at ease with the arrival of this young nobleman and his dark butler. Never had anyone of such a station come calling after his daughter for her aid in criminal matters. Yes, there was Abberline, but his methods of soliciting her services were more subtle. And if he was correct that this Phantomhive was, in fact, _the_ Phantomhive, his beloved daughter may not really be home for dinner after all.

For if he and his butler discovered the true nature of her skill, there was no doubt in the elder baker's mind that fate would take her far beyond the threshold of the bakery's doors.

For despite his teasing, and his wish for his eldest daughter to have a social life and perhaps one day marry, the girl's propensity for bluntness (a product of too much time learning the laws of leavening rather than gossiping with girls her own age) had a tendency of giving people the wrong impression. To give the wrong impression to an Earl, and particularly _this_ Earl...

He could only wish that Amelie would conduct herself with some form of discretion.

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**And so, the baker joins the Earl and the demon in order to seek out an Undertaker...**


	3. Rising to the Occasion

AN: Hey, everyone! I'm really happy with the feedback I've gotten so far, and happy that you're all enjoying the story. If I haven't replied to your review personally, or can't because you did so with the anon feature, just know that I'm incredibly grateful for your support! Now then, let's continue with the story, shall we?

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******Chapter Three: "Rising" to the Occasion**

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Time spent within the warm bakery had made Ciel forget all about the chill outdoors. Because of this, the first gust, lifting the tails of his coat and nearly snatching away his hat, came as something of a shock. He grasped at the coat's closures with one hand, held his hat on top of his head with the other, and strode stiffly towards the carriage. Sebastian followed close behind, but the baker girl stood in place, confused.

"The funeral parlor is two doors down," she pointed out. "That is where we are headed, is it not?"

Ciel froze and set upon her with a sour look. His mood, now that it had been once more exposed to the cold, had turned foul again.

"I mean, isn't it a waste to have to turn around and urge your horses on for such a short distance? Walking would be far quicker." Amelie continued.

"Then we shall meet you there," the Earl stated bitterly.

He then climbed the carriage step after Sebastian opened the door and watched as Amelie, apparently not all all perturbed by his rudeness, began to walk in the opposite direction. Perhaps it would have been polite to offer her a place within the carriage, but she had said in so many words that she preferred walking. And indeed, Amelie was quite proficient in the task, having reached the funeral parlor well before the Earl. She stood by the shop's door, seeming mostly unaffected by it. Sure, the wind had blown the shawl from where she'd draped it about her head, and had undone her chignon, and she had to hold a steady hand over the cloth-covered basket she carried, but she hardly seemed to shiver. Likely that she was accustomed to it, Ciel decided as the carriage drew to a stop. He noted with some bitterness that it had not been any warmer within the confines of the carriage and, indeed, had only served to shield him from the howling gusts. Otherwise, he still felt the coolness all the way up to his elbows and could see clouds of his own breath.

The lad exited the carriage, even more irritated than before, and strode past the woman into the shop. Amelie raised a curious eyebrow as the door slammed shut after him, then shook her head. She had never, and would never understand the moodiness of most nobles. She did appreciate his butler's polite gesture of holding the door open for her as he approached, even if something within him frightened her still.

"Do forgive the young master," he implored. "This fell weather wreaks havoc upon his mood."

"I've noticed," said the baker. "Though I do not blame him. Such unseasonable cold can only be an ill omen."

The young woman stepped through the door and tugged her errant mass of curls over one shoulder, giving it up as a lost cause. At least having it all pulled to the side would give it some semblance of order. She was more concerned for the contents of her basket, and after checking that they were still intact, she moved to stand near Ciel and took in one of the most bizarre sights of her life.

True, she had never actually entered the shop in her life, despite having walked by it countless times and living but two doors down from it. But the sight before Amelie was far from expectation. She'd had an image in her mind, of a clean and well-lit with candles and perhaps flowers. What she found defied that, turned it on its head, and whomped it on the behind.

The place was quite dank, first of all. Only the barest traces of light filtered through the windows (which were so thickly coated in dust that they nearly appeared black). Other surfaces carried a generous coating of muck as well. The floor, for instance, along with several coffins and a wide sill by the windows. Heavy shelves laden from top to bottom with books on anatomy and disease lined one wall. The shelves did not simply house books, however. Jars with odd shapes suspended in liquid could be found here and there. As well, one of the shelves contained a human skull, several beakers, and more dust that the proprietor either could not reach or had simply been too lazy to reach. Cobwebs of all sizes stretched like gossamer lace among the ceiling rafters. An anatomy doll sat in one corner, propped against the edge of a desk littered with books, papers, and quills. There was not a soul in sight.

Amelie watched Ciel heave a great sigh, and covered her basket securely against anything unsanitary that may stir up from the floor.

"Undertaker!" the Earl called out, quite crossly. "Are you here?"

"Well, he most certainly should be," said Amelie. "given that his door was unlocked."

"Hihi, quite right~" came a voice from behind her.

Amelie gave a sharp gasp and whipped around to find that a figure peered out at her from behind the lid of a large coffin leaned against the wall. A long-fingered hand, each digit tipped in long black nails, clutched the lid of the coffin. Amelie followed the hand to where it connected to the wrist, then up the dark-clad arm and to the occupant's face. A wide, toothy grin spread across the figure's face, but apart from that she could make out no other features. For the figures eyes were obscured, covered by thick silver bangs. Only the barest glint behind the curtain oc hair hinted tha the man did, indeed, have eyes. The rest of the man's appearance was impossible to make out, obscured by the coffin's lid as it was.

"My," Amelie breathed. "Were of of lesser constitution, I very well may have screamed just now."

The man's toothy grin turned to a frown of disappointment at having failed to fully frighten the woman. After all, he'd set his sights on her since the moment he'd noticed her approach through one of the dust-choked windows. She was a newcomer, and newcomers always made for the best and easiest scaring. As soon as he was certain she would be entering the shop, the mortician had hidden in the coffin. It was an overdone trick, perhaps, but it could be endlessly satisfying.

However, this girl, with her barely-contained tangle of deep red curls and flour-dusted work clothes, looked less frightened than amused that he'd tried in the first place. That was a rare occurrence.

"Am I to assume you are the proprietor of this erm..." Amelie caught sight of a bony protrusion behind the man. Clearly, he was not the coffin's only occupant. "...fine establishment?"

The man's smile returned, only a hair less gleeful than it had been before.

"I am, indeed~" he said, pushing the lid aside so that he may step out. "It is I who restores the beauty to those who have met with gristly fates, he who composes the decomposed, for they are incapable of doing so themselves. And I am the one who also, when the occasion arises, may glimpse a person's..._innermost workings _in order to understand the fall of my dear, dear guests. But you, my dear, may call me The Undertaker~"

"Yes, but what is your name?" Amelie inquired, nonplussed by his exaggerated introduction. If she was not mistaken, the scent of formaldehyde was thick in the air. It was common knowledge that extensive exposure to the chemical could cause unsavory effects on the human body. Perhaps it had gotten to his brain.

"My dear, that is my name or as close to one as I can give, at any rate~"

"Truly, sir? Your surname is _Undertaker_?"

She quirked a brow, as if to say _'Do you really expect me to believe that crockery?'_

The Undertaker merely laughed. Amelie took it as a sign to give up and shrugged.

"To think that this world has become so informal that one offers only their profession by way of introduction," she scoffed.

The baker was perhaps a bit unreasonably annoyed, for it always managed to pluck the wrong strings when she met someone indirect. She was not bred to be a particularly patient creature, which was why she hardly conversed, as her father would say, with gossiping girls her age. It was simply too much effort to speak with them if she was expecting a conversation worth any value.

The man did not seem bothered, though.

'Never mind that!" the diminutive Earl interrupted. "We have come in order to ask after some recently deceased men."

"Well, isn't that just dripping in vague ambiguity. 'We've come to visit some corpses. Recently-deceased corpses, yes.'" Amelie mimicked the voice of some simple-minded visitor, then switched her voice to a deeper tone. "'Why, what sort of recently-deceased corpses? Burned, slashed, battered, or slightly decomposed?'"

The Undertaker chuckled heartily as he slipped fully from his hiding spot. Having decided that he liked this girl immensely already, he reached to take her hand.

"My dear, you never were given ample opportunity for introduction before the itty Phantomhive so _rudely_ interrupted. Tell me, may I have the pleasure of your name?"

"You may," said the baker, charmed despite the man's overall air of creepiness. "I am Amelie Fortescue of the Sarriette Gourmet Bakery. As we are apparently introducing ourselves by title, you may call me Ms. Baker. And here with me are Mr. Earl and Mr. Butler."

The sour, curdled-milk-has-just-been-tasted-and-I-need-despe rately-to-wash-my-mouth-out expression on Ciel's face was enough to make Undertaker loose a sharp bark of laughter. How absolutely blunt this girl was, how charmingly direct! The Undertaker bend low over her hand.

"Enchant**é**, miss Amelie," he chortled. "However, I am quite well acquainted with Mr. Earl and Mr. Butler."

"Why, you—" Ciel started forward in irritation at the mortician. His anger towards the baker was almost, but not quite as intense, for after all this time, the eclair's sweetness still lingered on his tongue. Before he could so much as raise his voice in anger, the Undertaker darted from behind Amelie and planted himself atop one of the dusty coffins. He retrieved the skull from the bookshelf and began to spin it on one long finger, as one might do a ball.

"Enchanté , indeed," he said to himself. Then, to the trio as a whole; "You've come to the right place, my friends~ I do indeed have new guests. Four, as a matter of fact. These four met a very dismal fate indeed~"

"Then you've information? Surely, you must have come to some conclusion about their deaths?" Ciel inquired, switching back to cool stoicism.

"I may, I may~" chirped the Undertaker. "But my dear Earl, you know the going rate for my services these days. You simply can't get something for nothing."

" I was afraid you were going to say something," Ciel muttered under his breath.

"What?" Amelie asked in alarm. "What is it? Surely the price can't be t_hat_ steep?"

"Indeed~" Undertaker loomed over her. "My price is more than reasonable."

"Then why such despondence?" Amelie asked of the Earl. "Surely you have more than enough money to meet whatever demands—"

"Money?" Undertaker interrupted, getting right in her face. "No, no, I have no use for such. What I require is something very difficult for our dear Earl to procure."

Amelie pondered just what it was that the boy might have difficulty in procuring. Practical footwear, perhaps? A top hat that didn't gleam so much? An hour with a lady of the night? The latter would be particularly difficult, not only due to the Earl's age but due to his noble reputation. Amelie's thoughts continued to drift off as the Undertaker suddenly burst into loud guffaws of laughter, clutching his stomach from the intensity of it. It was then that the baker realized she must have communicated those thoughts aloud. Mortified, she turned a rather fetching shade of pink.

"Gahaa~ My dear Earl, it seems you've already paid my price in the form of this lovely new acquaintance!" Undertaker laughed, placing his hands fondly on Amelie's shoulders.

"Me?" Amelie squeaked. The Undertaker nodded.

"I have not met someone as entertaining as yourself in quite some time~" he said. "My dear miss Amelie, you've given me laughter most delectable!"

"Is that so?" Amelie grinned widely at the compliment. "You ought to try my pastries sometime, then. They're even more delectable."

"Then you'll tell us what you know?" Ciel pressed, clearly battling off a wicked headache at the antics before him.

"My precious little Phantomhive, I'll do more than that. I'll tell you precisely how they died."

"Truly?" Sebastian spoke up, impressed. "You are willing to part with such private information regarding your beloved guests?"

"They've no need for privacy anymore," Amelie pointed out. "given that they're dead. And if the killers are to be found, the dead cannot afford to keep secrets."

Again, Undertaker burst into laughter at the woman's bluntness. Ciel did not share his amusement, and in fact was beginning to develop something of an adverse opinion of the baker, softened only by his fondness for her baking skill.

"Indeed~" Undertaker said. "what good do secrets do a dead man? Besides, my guests aren't ones to hold back information. Unlike some..."

"Then enough of this idle chatter. We've no more time for foolishness."

"Pah, as always, itty Phantomhive, you suck out all the fun. Very well. For starters, the men were not killed with weapons or poison. They were, just as initial re;ports state, drowned."

"We were informed that the bodies were not found in water, nor were their clothes soaked," Sebastian reminded him.

"Yes, precisely. They were drowned, but I never said in _water_~"

"Well what else is there to drown in? Wine? Milk? Blood?" Amelie asked.

"Aha~ You're correct, miss Amelie."

"What? I am? Milk, then?" she suggested, suddenly having a vivid vision of a man choking to death on a mug of milk after having shoveled one too many cookies into his maw.

The Undertaker shook his head. "Blood."

"Blood?" Amelie was alarmed.

"Blood. These four guests were drowned by blood. Mr. Dorhaus in particular had copious amounts in his lungs."

"How could a man drown in blood, unless he was found dead near a slaughterhouse? Unless they were actually poisoned by a substance which caused their lungs to hemorrhage and liquify..." Sebastian inquired.

"What a gristly scenario indeed, mister butler. Wrong, but creative. No, no, our friends had their heads held under a large amount of blood until their lives expired. From there it was a simple matter of cleaning them up and redressing them. The perpetrator did a terrible job, might I add. My poor guests were in a state of horrendous disarray before I got to them. Blood in the ears and hair, buttons all done up wrong..." Undertaker tsked, shaking his head in shame. "Really, to go through the effort of splaying them out in the street and taking them all the way out to that foundry to do the deed. Shameful, really, the lack of an eye for detail~"

"Hold on a moment," Ciel tried to re-track the conversation. "The victims were killed within a foundry? How can you know that?"

"Hm? Oh, I don't. It was a tale, if you will. A bit of filler backstory for my guests."

"In other words, you know only that they were drowned in blood somewhere, cleaned up, then dragged back here to splay out in the streets. To what end? Must everything be so maddening?" Ciel exclaimed.

"Who can say~?"

"Well, perhaps I can be of assistance then?" Amelie suggested. "That _is_ why you came to me."

"True," Sebastian said. "Inspector Abberline did state that miss Amelie has an uncanny eye for unseen details. Though, I admit to curiosity. How can a mere baker with no social status have the means to discern such information? Unless you've some exceedingly thorough forensic training, to all eyes you are no more than you appear to be."

"I do have some forensic knowledge," Amelie confirmed, for in the practice of waking the dead, she had educated herself quite well on the anatomy of human beings.

Far more thoroughly than any lady of _proper _breeding, at any rate. The knowledge had been acquired through necessity, for how was she to explain to police that she knew a man had been stabbed in the anterior of the aorta if she did not know what an aorta was?

"As well, my own trade requires a certain eye for detail. Perhaps you should give me a chance to prove myself before you deem me incapable?"

Truly, after witnessing the girl's blunt tendencies firsthand, Ciel questioned her capabilities as well. How exactly was she to find the truth, when even the Undertaker (who seemed to know all secrets of London's dark underbelly) did not know? She wasn't really anything spectacular. Certainly, her baked goods were indeed good enough to wake the dead (though he still had no idea just how literally that statement could be taken), but otherwise she was merely a working-class citizen. Unless...

Perhaps she was a demon?

But no, Sebastian would have informed him, were that the case. Wouldn't he?

"Five minutes with each victim," Amelie said. "That is all I ask. And if, in that time, I have not acquired any additional information, you will simply never hear from me again. Unless, of course, you find yourselves in need of a dozen baguettes. It isn't as though you'll be worse off if I find nothing."

"I'm sure my guests would be absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance, miss Amelie." The Undertaker grinned his approval.

"She does make a valid point," Sebastian noted. "Her investigations will either yield more information, or we will simply remain as ill-informed as we are now. We've nothing to lose. There is, of course, my own desire to investigate, but should we not give miss Fortescue ample opportunity as well?"

"How about it, teensy Earl?" Undertaker urged.

Ciel looked to the man with his grinning face, then to Amelie who blinked placidly, and finally to the serene face of his butler. Sebastian raised a finger to his chin, as if in thought, but the eye contact he held with his master spoke of a secret he had some knowledge of. Hm. Just what did he know that Ciel did not? Was it something the Undertaker had left out, or something to do with the baker, perhaps?

Fondness for the girl's confections flooded Ciel's consciousness, but thinking on it, perhaps they'd been a little _too_ good. And the woman acted strangely, seeming all too eager to assist them (to say nothing of how she'd insulted him indirectly several times). If anything, giving Amelie her requested time to examine the bodies would give him a chance to have Sebastian dig up some form of information on her...

He motioned for the butler to approach, and in an authoritative voice said;

"I seem to have forgotten some documents in the carriage. Fetch them for me, would you?"

The butler stepped forward and bowed with great flourish. Much more flourish than necessary, if you asked Amelie. There were, of course, no documents. The excuse was just that; an excuse.

"Yes, my lord."

Then, switching to French in an effort to avoid cluing the baker in on what was going on, Ciel added to his orders.

"I find myself suspicious of this girl."

"Ah, what coincidence. I am also suspicious about her, and wish to confirm something."

"Confirm? What is it, Sebastian?"

"Well, she's provided no obvious hints thus far, but I suspect she may be a creature of some supernatural bearing."

He thought her to be a demon as well? "Then in the time it takes her to examine the bodies, learn all that you can about this woman."

Honestly, they didn't really have a good reason to suspect her of being anything but human, apart from the unnaturally delicious eclair. Apparently that was enough, however, to accuse her of witchcraft or of being a demon. A silly thought process, to be sure, one that had resulted in many wrongful deaths two centuries ago in the town of Salem in America.

Sebastian stood and, after a repetition of his obedience, moved to do as ordered. However...

"What was that?" Amelie snapped at the pair.

"Pardon?"

"What was that?" she repeated. "You just said you were suspicious of me, then said something about spying on me. I heard, clear as day."

"You misunderstand," Ciel said to her. "I was merely expressing my gratitude for the services of—"

"My name is _Fortescue_, sir. What origin do you think the name to have? My mother, god rest her, was English, but my father is and always has been French. I know the language fluently. Do not take me for a fool, _si'l vous plait!_" the woman snapped.

_'Oh, damn it all,'_ Ciel thought. _'She speaks French?'_

He felt himself begin to sweat a little, wracking his brain for some excuse and looking to Sebastian for the same. Amelie, however, turned up her nose and then whirled to face the Undertaker.

"Show me your guests, if you please. I need but a few minutes alone with each. May these two _gentlemen_ find what they are searching for within that time."

"Certainly, certainly~ Right this way, miss."

The spindly man, still resting his hands on the young woman's shoulders, ushered her over to a closed door near the desk, which seemed to lead to a downward staircase. It was pitch-black below, an odd musty smell combining with the acrid stench of formaldehyde permeating the air.

"You'll be wanting this," the Undertaker said, procuring a lit candle stick from apparently nowhere. "The four new guests are the only ones down there, so you'll have no issues finding who you're looking for. I shall leave you to it, miss Amelie. Though I admit to some curiosity in your methods, it's only polite to allow a lady her privacy."

He released her from his hold then, turned, and shut the door, leaving her alone to the dark stairwell. Amelie felt calm, even though the butler and the Earl were apparently suspicious of her. Let them search all around the bakery, in her room, in her undergarment drawer, for all she cared. They could search all of London, but unless they actually saw her in the process of feeding a cookie to a dead man, they would never learn of her secret.

And that was how she preferred to keep it.

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**"****_It's delicious...she_****_ must _****_be a witch! Burn the witch!" _**


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